


Prologue

by theladyscribe



Series: From the New World [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Pevensies Live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: The Shrike arrived as the camp began its day, with news of a stranger sighted on the plain south of the Western Woods.
Relationships: pre-James "Bucky" Barnes/Edmund Pevensie
Series: From the New World [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638904
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38
Collections: X-Ship - The Crossover Relationship Exchange 2019





	Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> Dear aurilly, I've been thinking about this universe for months, so I hope you don't mind that I took another little crack at it. <3

The Shrike arrived as the camp began its day, with news of a stranger sighted on the plain south of the Western Woods. The man had appeared out of nowhere, dressed in leathers save for one arm encased in silver armor, and had promptly fallen in a heap while the Shrike watched.

"I hope he is dead," it told Edmund with a gleam in its eye, "but I see him groan." The Shrike ruffled its feathers in irritation at the inconvenience. "Maybe he's dead when I take you to him."

The fields were at least an hour's ride from the company's encampment along the Telmar River, so Edmund wasted no time, calling Guislan and Dagnir to go with him. He gave Hilde orders to gather the company and follow behind if they received no further word from him within two hours.

A diligent lookout, the Shrike warned Edmund that the man was well-armed, with at least three visible knives and probably more hidden. For a spy, it was strange; in Edmund's experience, spies tended toward subtlety. More likely, this man was a mercenary, though from what land and for whose cause, he couldn't say. They had no enemies to the west -- Torsk, to the west of the mountains, was friendly and unlikely to facilitate the movement of hostile troops. If this man had truly dropped from the sky as the Shrike claimed, then far worse things might be afoot than mercenaries on the move. Edmund wondered if this stranger would prove to be the harbinger of winter the Centaurs had told Peter of, which had sent his company patrolling the northwest border these last two weeks. He shook off the prickle of unease at his spine; regardless of what this meant for prophecies and the mutterings of Centaurs, he was glad to have something to do besides yet another day of exercises and drills.

Orders given and horses readied, he heaved himself into the saddle and turned to the Shrike. "Lead the way, my friend."

The Shrike gave a little hop of acknowledgement and took off, heading west toward the mountains. Edmund and his companions followed suit.

The stranger remained where the Shrike had found him, on a hillock near the foot of the mountains. He sat up slowly as he heard the horses, though he made no move for his weapons, and Edmund signaled for Dagnir and Guislan to keep their distance while he rode forward.

"Hail, stranger," Edmund called, eying the man warily. "How came you here?"

The man blinked at him and looked around himself, taking stock of the upland pasture, the border of the woods, the riders in front of him. "I don't." He coughed. "I don’t know. I was -- I was in Wakanda, and Steve --"

"Wakanda?" Edmund repeated, startled. This man was from Earth, if he knew of Wakanda, though it seemed unlikely that he had come from that country. It was deep in Africa, so remote that the stories Edmund had heard about it were the stuff of legend more than reality. "Good sir, you are in Narnia."

The man frowned. "Narnia?" he asked. "Where the fuck is Narnia?" He started to stand, telegraphing his movement, left hand outstretched in surrender, right pressed into the dirt. Edmund shifted his spear, readying it to throw, as the man got a foot under him. He attempted to rise from his crouch but his knees buckled under him. "I don’t feel so --" He didn’t finish his sentence, collapsing in a faint.

Edmund waited a moment to see if this was some sort of trickery, but the man didn't move again and there were no signs that this might be a trap. He dismounted and walked over to the man. Edmund could see now that his arm wasn’t armored as the Shrike had reported. It was made of plate metal, well-articulated, with a range of motion that closely matched human physiology. The arm, like the rest of him, was covered in blood and ichor, as if he’d just come from battle.

Edmund leaned closer to study him further. Cautiously, he turned the man over so that he could get a better look. The man's face was bruised, a gash on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. He didn't appear to have any life-threatening injuries, nor any obviously broken bones. His lips were cracked -- likely dehydrated, especially if he'd been lying in the heat of the day after fighting. His clothing wasn't leather, nor did it appear to be cotton or wool. Edmund thought suddenly of the American soldiers he'd seen in England during the War and the blended fabrics they'd worn. He rubbed a bit of the fabric of the man's sleeve between his fingers. It was roughly textured but clearly robustly made. Military in cut and tailoring to be sure, though Edmund was uncertain about the weave. But it had been nearly fifteen years since the Pevensies arrived in Narnia -- surely this man hadn't come from the War.

Edmund rose and looked around them, north toward the forest, west toward the mountains, south toward the river. There were no tracks in the grass save those he and his companions had made, no smoke from fire nor the eerie silence that followed a battle. He looked down at the man again, lying prone, unconscious. Wherever he'd come from, it had been somewhere dangerous. He felt that prickle of unease at the back of his neck again.

He turned back toward his companions. "Guislan," he said, "Relieve him of his weapons and tie him up, but be careful of his wounds. I don't think we'll need a stretcher; we can tie him to my saddle, and I'll ride post. Dagnir, head for camp; tell Hilde to ready the medical tent. Have Beauregard set aside some bread and porridge." Dagnir nodded and left, spurring his horse down the hill. Edmund glanced at the Shrike, sharpening its beak on a rock. "The man lives, but if you come back to our camp this evening, there will be raw liver for you."

The Shrike's eyes glittered at the promise. "I thank you, King Edmund," it said and took off.

He looked back to where Guislan had nearly finished tying the man's arms and legs. There were no less than seven knives laid out beside him, each more deadly than the last. The weapons of an assassin, not of a soldier. Edmund muttered to himself, "Don't thank me just yet."


End file.
